Football: He suffered a broken leg at the start of the game, but partnered with Haaland!

Three days later, in London, England.

A three-week break is extremely valuable for professional athletes. Sun Yang, along with his mother and Catherine, returned to their familiar neighborhood theater in London.

This is the "execution ground" where he was beaten and trained as a child. Every piece of floorboard worn smooth by time bears the sweat he shed while practicing horse stance as a child.

Today, the small theater has been transformed. Under the business acumen of his mother, Diana, Sun Wu completely abandoned the idea of ​​performing under a sign and instead turned the theater's backyard into a "comprehensive training camp" for all ages.

Right now, the courtyard was as lively as a market. More than thirty blond, blue-eyed British children, dressed in loose-fitting leotards, were practicing their horse stances on the lawn, gritting their teeth.

Some were practicing forward rolls on the mats, while others were passing a tattered soccer ball around the edge of the lawn.

"Straighten your toes! Who told you to bend your knees!" Sun Wu gripped a white waxwood pole, surveying the team with a stern tone. "The basic training in Peking Opera is all about a stable lower body! With your noodle-like legs, if you go onto the court and encounter something hard and tough, you'll be sent flying out of bounds to eat grass!"

These young kids, not quite grown up yet, are all die-hard fans of Sun Yang.

Ever since German media exposed that Sun Yang received "mysterious Eastern martial arts" and Peking Opera basic skills training here from a young age, all the English parents in the neighborhood have gone crazy, rushing to send their children to this "star-making factory".

The gate opened, and Sun Yang, dressed in a simple gray tracksuit and carrying a net bag of soccer balls, walked into the backyard.

Among the crowd, a chubby little boy was the first to spot the figure at the door. His eyes widened and his mouth opened wide enough to fit a whole hamburger.

"OMG! It's Sunny!"

"The monster who lifted the MVP trophy in Germany is back!"

The lawn erupted into chaos. More than thirty little ones completely forgot about the stick in Sun Wu's hand and rushed towards the door like madmen. Dozens of small hands, covered in grass clippings, clung desperately to Sun Yang's trouser legs and sleeves.

"Sunny, when I grow up I want to score on one of those balls that fly in the sky!"

"Sunny, those big-name players in Paris look like wooden stakes. Can you teach me how to cross them like I'm walking across a busy street in the early morning?"

Sun Yang smiled and squatted down, took out a marker from his pocket, and patiently signed his name on every notebook and jersey offered to him.

"Want to learn how to beat people? First, throw that pile of high-calorie fish and chips your dad made for you into the trash can." Sun Yang vigorously ruffled the little fat boy's golden curly hair, stood up, and walked straight to the weapon rack next to him.

He picked out a two-meter-long wooden stick, weighed it in his hand, and his eyes suddenly sharpened.

"Everyone back up and look carefully."

Sun Yang held the staff in one hand, his right arm muscles bulging, and with a flick of his wrist, the staff whistled through the air, creating a dense, impenetrable blur of afterimages.

Immediately afterwards, he took a half-inch step back, and his right leg, like a heavy spring that had been compressed to its limit, lifted off the ground. In mid-air, he completed a highly difficult tumbling and flipping motion that completely defied human ergonomics.

The moment it landed, there was a muffled "bang".

The end of the wooden stick slammed heavily onto the plastic floor, leaving a white mark. Sun Yang stood almost leaning on the stick, his right hand across his brow, perfectly poised as a classic "looking back at the moon" pose from traditional Chinese opera.

Without ten years of hard work and a core that absolutely crushes his peers, it's impossible to execute such a monstrous move that demands an insane level of body control. This isn't just a fancy trick; it's the foundation of his confidence in the Bundesliga penalty area, where he can hold off European center-backs and finish a shot.

The British Boy Scouts watching were stunned, forgetting to even blink. Their hands clapped until they were red, and their screams almost blew the old roof off the theater.

The noisy little theater only quieted down once night fell.

After taking a shower, Sun Yang stretched out comfortably on the single bed in the attic on the second floor, the bed he had slept on since childhood. As soon as he closed his eyes, his consciousness skillfully sank into the system space.

In the darkness, the pale blue virtual screen lit up precisely on time.

Although the Champions League knockout stage journey ended in heartbreak in the final, the results achieved in the quarterfinals and semifinals, along with the efforts of half a season, finally deserve a comprehensive review.

[The final settlement for the 2019-2020 season has begun.]

[Host detected has won three major Bundesliga awards: Season MVP, Top Assists, and Best Goal.]

[Host detected to have won three individual awards in the UEFA Champions League: UEFA Champions League Best Young Player, UEFA Champions League Assist King (tied for first place), and UEFA Champions League Goal of the Season.]

[Congratulations, host, on achieving an epic milestone: A Rising Star Shines in Europe!]

[Distributing basic and critical hit bonus points for each event. Current total points: 42 points.]

Looking at the frozen numbers, Sun Yang felt a surge of excitement. A full forty-two points in reserve meant he had the capital to splurge during the upcoming off-season.

Immediately afterwards, glaring red text popped up at the bottom of the screen.

System upgrade complete.

[The solo training function for legendary players in the Dream Training Camp has been completely disabled. The All-Star Showdown version has been upgraded: the number of players on both sides has been expanded, and the original two randomly selected top legendary players have officially joined the battle, officially upgrading to a 3V3 God-like match mode!]

Sun Yang's Adam's apple bobbed.

The intensity of the competition has doubled. In the previous matches, Ronaldo and Pirlo were enough to suffocate the midfield and attack. Now, with three top legends on each side, plus a bunch of system-generated current stars... this is basically an enhanced version of the World All-Star Game!

Without the slightest hesitation, Sun Yang mentally pressed the confirm button.

[10 points consumed. Current remaining points: 32 points.]

[The new 3V3 Dreamland All-Star Tournament is now open! Scene loading... Venue setting: Closed-door, no-audience battle mode.]

A blinding white light flashed, and Sun Yang once again stepped onto that dreamlike green field, as smooth as a carpet. He was wearing his familiar white training uniform, with the captain's armband tightly bound to his left arm.

On the giant screen in front, dark gold player cards began to scroll back and forth like a windmill.

"White Team lineup drawn."

The first card was suddenly flipped open, shattering the light and shadow. A stern-faced, elegant Dutch man strolled out with a leisurely air. He merely adjusted the hem of his jersey casually, without any extra movements, yet he exuded a cold, artistic aura that transformed the football field into the La Scala opera house.

Dennis Bergkamp, ​​the Ice Prince. The Arsenal legend who used ball control as a lethal weapon and could turn football into a ballet.

The second card then froze in place.

His handsome face was flawlessly radiant with sunlight, and even on the court, his stride exuded an unstoppable aura. The silhouette of his red and black striped shirt was faintly visible on his chest.

Kaka, the eternal white moonlight of San Siro. That ruthless supercar that could receive the ball in midfield, rev the engine to fifth gear, and sprint at full speed to devour the entire opposing defense.

The third card crashed heavily to the ground.

An ordinary-looking black midfielder wiggled his ankle as he entered the field. Claude Makelele, a black, tough, and impenetrable defender who single-handedly redefined the "defensive midfielder" position for top clubs worldwide. His interceptions and sweeping attacks were a formidable obstacle for all attacking midfielders.

As he watched his three god-like teammates approach, Sun Yang's mind raced.

Wow! Bergkamp's attacking play, Kaká's relentless central runs, and Makelele's cover-up from behind—this squad, combined with his unerring, radar-like passing, is practically a dream team tailor-made for ultimate counter-attacking football.

But before he could even swallow his saliva, the big screen suddenly shook violently, and the Red Team's terrifying cards began to appear one by one.

The first one was short, with dark skin, and flashed a set of harmless white teeth at the camera.

N'Golo Kanté, the French defensive stalwart. "Seventy percent of the Earth's surface is covered by water, and the remaining thirty percent is covered by Kanté." The smiling killer who can plow through the entire pitch between the two penalty areas in ninety minutes.

Sun Yang's eyelids twitched, and he touched his chest. He still had the "Kanter Perpetual Motion Machine Lung" that the system reward was giving him. Was he going to have to face off against the real and fake Monkey Kings tonight?

The second person was dressed in a tight red outfit that accentuated his explosive muscles, and he had an arrogant look in his eyes.

Francesco Totti, the lifelong icon of Rome. His powerful long-range shots, capable of uprooting mountains, and his exquisitely visionary through balls from the edge of the penalty area—the Giallorossi's every touch sent the defense into a frenzy.

Then, the third card was revealed, accompanied by heavy footsteps.

A towering giant, over 1.95 meters tall, strode out of the shadows of the passageway onto the grass. He stood with his hands on his hips, his long hair casually tied back in a small ponytail, his chin held high, looking down at everyone in the room with an air of disdain.

That posture seemed to say: It's not that I need this game, it's that this game needs me.

Zlatan Ibrahimovic. The Swedish striker whose arrogance is ingrained in his bones, who calls himself God. A natural-born black belt in Taekwondo, a penalty area nuclear weapon capable of smashing the ball into the corner of the net at the most unbelievable angles with his heel and scorpion kick.

All cards for both sides have been collected.

Before the opening whistle even blew, both sides were already stretching and warming up on their own. In the Red Team's half, Ibrahimovic was raising his long leg, which was longer than a normal person's shoulder, high up in a high-pressure split stretch that was extremely imposing.

Sun Yang licked his dry lips, his eyes burning with an almost overflowing greed.

Kaka's pace, the Ice Prince's ball control, Totti's through balls, and that Swedish tower's incredible flexibility...

If we don't fleece these old devils tonight, we'll be letting down the ten points the system deducted from us! Sun Yang tightened his captain's armband and walked straight toward the red team's half of the court.